


Blossom Women

by exceptionallyunfortunate



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Age Difference, Altered States, Auditory Hypnosis, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Light Bondage, Mindbreak, Penis In Vagina Sex, Pseudo-Incest, Public Sex, Rape, Religious Cults, Simultaneous Orgasm, conversion therapy, suffocation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27753820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exceptionallyunfortunate/pseuds/exceptionallyunfortunate
Summary: Cheryl Blossom falls victim to a maple-scented aphrodisiac, Edgar Evernever’s masculine body, and Penelope Blossom’s conviction to fix her daughter.Written for Consent Issues 2020, inspired by prompts such as:Edgar Evernever xcons Cheryl BlossomAltered States - Taking Advantage of Helpless/Unconscious VictimBetrayal - Victim's Family Arranged XconGender/Sexuality - Victim's Sexuality Does Not Include Gender of Aggressor(s)Mind Control - Into Obedient Sex SlavePublic - Xcon in Front of AudienceScenario - Victim Used Until Limp and ExhaustedPregnancy - Public Breeding
Relationships: Cheryl Blossom/Edgar Evernever
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2020





	Blossom Women

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redtwins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtwins/gifts).



> Additional content warnings:
> 
>   * Suffocation to blackout
>   * Indirect incest – mother implicated in and present for her daughter’s assault
>   * Tradwife conversion therapy vibes
>   * Non-consensual drugging to achieve cumbrain mindbreak
>   * PiV to mutual completion with no protection
>   * Rape with an audience
> 


The first sensation she was aware of was the familiar softness of a satin pillowcase against her cheek. The second was the pleasant warmth between her legs that she recognized as the afterglow of an extremely good fuck.

Cheryl Blossom raised her arms over her head, feeling the deep stretch in her muscles as she rolled onto her side. Her eyes were still lazy to open, not quite ready to face the sunlight that would be streaming in through the windows, but her hands didn’t need to see to know how to reach for Toni’s plush curves on the other side of the bed.

Except it wasn’t Toni there.

Instead of silky hair or plump breasts, Cheryl’s wandering palms met a hard, flat abdomen. Her eyes shot open as she recoiled, immediately meeting the gaze of two stony green eyes staring back.

“I’m disappointed, Cheryl,” the man’s low voice rumbled. “Those impure thoughts are still clouding your mind.”

Then the satiny softness was back, caressing her cheeks, her lips, her nose, dampening the sunlight, swallowing her screams as she thrashed, first out of terror then out of lack of oxygen as Edgar Evernever held the pillow to her face until sleep consumed her once more.

* * *

Something foul brought her back—pungent smelling salts that made the back of her throat hurt almost as much as the rest of her body did, especially her head but also her cunt.

The light in the room was dim, the air damp and musty. Cheryl tried to rub at her groggy eyes, but found her muscles impossibly weak and her wrists bound above her head with silk cords, a mockery of her usual awakening stretch. Craning her neck to look around, she could barely make out shadowy figures standing around the windowless stone walls of the vast room before a white hot flash of light left her blinded. She tried once again to raise an arm to shield her face, but her bindings held strong. Even with her eyes screwed as tightly closed as they could go, the blood red of the insides of her eyelids burned her retinas.

A set of firm fingers squeezed her cheeks and forced her head to the right. Tears beginning to well in her eyes, Cheryl squinted against the light to make out Edgar’s glowering face—the only thing she could make out for certain as her eyes adjusted to the bright light reflecting off his immaculately white linen shirt.

“You’ve been a naughty girl, Cheryl,” he murmured, his grip tight on her jaw. Even if she could think of words to say through the pain of her headache, she wouldn’t have been able to shape her cherry red lips around them.

Edgar’s head cocked from side to side but his cold eyes never broke contact with hers. He seemed almost like a serpent sizing up its prey, or a greedy connoisseur of fine art inspecting a prized rarity from all angles. Cheryl suddenly felt naked under his gaze, her throbbing brain slow to become aware of the sheer white gown draped over her skin—cool, thin fabric like a Greek statue might wear, no doubt masking nothing under the heavy studio lights pointed at her body. She tried to inch her knees together to preserve some scrap of dignity, but found her ankles pulling against the same silk ropes as her wrists. A sinking weight bloomed in the pits of her stomach.

“I’ve been made aware of your… proclivities,” Edgar continued. “Your... reckless spiral into a world of sin and darkness. His other hand fluttered across Cheryl’s thigh, fingertips barely grazing her skin and they traced idly back and forth. The sensation was eerily similar to the tickle of Toni’s gorgeous hair against her legs, Toni’s nimble tongue against her—

The thought made Cheryl once again aware of the familiar ache she had first woken up to—how long ago had that been? She tried once more to squeeze her legs shut, to no avail.

Edgar’s fingers froze at the movement. He gave a long sigh, then finally withdrew both his hands from the teenager laying spread-eagle before him. His intense gaze pulled away as well, eyes drifting over to the shadows beyond the softbox lights. “Let us make our sister Cheryl understand why we have brought her here today,” he called out into the darkness, his voice ringing in the vast space.

The crisp click of sharp heels on a stone floor betrayed Penelope Blossom’s presence even before the cruel mistress could step into the light to stand beside the man. With her face newly liberated from Edgar’s grip, Cheryl hissed to make her outrage known.

“You conniving _shrew_!” screeched the teenager, straining helplessly against her bindings. If her crisply manicured nails could have clawed her mother’s eyes out of her skull, they would have. “What is this? Why have you brought me to this horrible den of wicked depravity?!”

Penelope merely scowled in return, arms crossed tightly in front of her chest. The white linen tunic draped over her slim frame was uncharacteristic, but her expression of disgust was well worn into the practiced frown lines of her aging face. Yet she remained otherwise silent and composed as her daughter screamed, and almost seemed to smile when an army of hands reached out of the shadows to press Cheryl further down into the plush mattress. Their grip reinforcing the girl’s binds, putting an end to her thrashing and finally her words as several palms clamped tight across the vixen’s lips and jaw.

Finally content with her daughter’s subjection, Penelope let out a disapproving _hmph_ and began to speak. Her tone was uncaring, almost aloof, yet her words were so clearly tinged with bitter spite.

“When I couldn’t make you change your ways, I turned to Edgar to rid you of your disturbing habits.”

She batted her eyes at the rugged man beside her, who nodded solemnly, his face taking on the same charismatic pout that had lured so many into the grips of his cult. If not for the head-spinning wooziness of barely being able to breathe through her muzzle of hands, Cheryl would have shrieked.

Penelope began to walk again, dipping behind the crowd of Farmies clustered around the bed, shielding herself from view. “You, wretched child, are, to the great shame of this family, a _Blossom_.” She circled the bed, her heels tapping a slow but rhythmic beat against the cool floor to punctuate the venom of her words. “And Blossom women are held to the highest standards of discipline, something you have _clearly_ failed to learn.”

Cheryl squeezed her eyes shut, hoping for even the slightest bit of solace from that hateful voice closing in from all directions, but she was helpless to stop the self-aggrandizing monologue from ringing clear in her ears. As the misogynistic narrative unspooled, Edgar’s strong hands returned, fists bundling the fabric of Cheryl’s gown and tearing it apart as if it were made of nothing more than Toni’s fishnet stockings, exposing bare, porcelain skin to the dank dungeon air and the eyes of the dozen or more brainwashed minions pinning her helplessly to the bed. A sob rose in her throat, choked back by her growing need for air.

“Blossom women are bred to serve their husbands and carry on the Blossom bloodline,” Penelope continued, unfazed by the assault on her daughter taking place before her. “And you _will_ learn to accept your place in this legacy.”

A cruelly gentle hand cupped Cheryl’s naked breast. Edgar’s palm was warm. Large. Firmer than Toni’s. Loathsome and unwanted and _wrong_... yet strangely grounding in its comforting familiarity as it caressed the curves that had captured the gaze of no less than every heterosexual man in Riverdale. The curves that belonged only to Antoinette Topaz.

Cheryl tried once more to cry out, but the sound was lost before it could even break free of her tightly clamped lips.

“What your mother means,” Edgar assured her, his voice as rich as honey, “is that we can _help_ you. All of us.” His hand slid down over the taut skin of her stomach, his eyes grazing over her body to follow. The thrumming of her own heart was loud in her ears, but she found her hazy brain being lulled by the charming timbre of his low voice and the rhythmic beat of her mother’s crisp footsteps.

“The Farm is here to rid your mind of all the suffering you’ve been through. To cleanse your body of corruption and impurity. To free you from the burden of all those thoughts so you can finally _cherish_ the beauty of your womanhood.”

In the space of a single second, the world shifted. Edgar’s hand cupped between Cheryl’s legs and the death grips holding the rest of her body in place released all at once. In surprise, the teen’s eyes shot open and she gasped in a lungful of refreshingly cool air from the cloud of sweet perfume that floated before her face, carried by the hiss of an aerosol spray. The familiar smell of maple syrup filled her nose and her back arched involuntarily, every nerve in her body lighting up like a trail of fireworks from her lungs and her groin. A strange giddiness engulfed her woozy brain, forcing away the memory of terror and the futile fantasy of escape, leaving behind only a stunningly vacuous high even better than jingle jangle had ever accomplished. The only clear thought that rang through the fog was the steady click. click. click. of Penelope’s clock-like footsteps.

Cheryl’s head wobbled on her neck as she tried to lift it to smile dumbly at Edgar. His shirt had vanished, and his deft fingers were making quick work of the string holding his linen trousers in place, precariously low on his hips. Even phasing in and out of focus, the man’s body was angled and pristine, like it had been chiseled out of stone by God Himself. The thin fabric pooled around his feet and he stepped out of it, knees easily clamoring onto the lip of the mattress. His penis was already half hard, long and lean like the rest of him as he stroked it with a loose fist. Cheryl’s own fingers twitched subconsciously, sympathetic and yearning to reach out and grasp it herself.

Edgar’s chuckle was warm and rumbly, resonating all the way to Cheryl’s bones. Her plump lips parted, jaw hanging slack as she watched him in breathless, empty-headed fascination. “We made so much progress yesterday,” he whispered solemnly, leaning over her. “But then you awoke today with those impure thoughts still in your mind.” He sighed, shaking his head. The glisten of his eyes filled Cheryl’s heart with an agonizing sorrow, but in her haze she couldn’t remember how to speak. “But I’m committed to helping you, Cheryl. No matter how many sessions we need.”

His two fingers tasted salty as he pressed them onto her tongue. She swallowed once, the whole world collapsing down on that singular point of contact. Three slow, mind-numbing heel clicks passed before the girl could remember how to suckle, but just as soon as she had, the fingers were gone, pressing against a different set of lips.

The easy glide of slick skin against the hard nub of Cheryl’s clitoris restored her voice. She moaned loudly, so much more loudly than she would have if her mind hadn’t been freed—a soaring aria over the rhythmic click circling the room, over the heady bassline Edgar’s voice washing over her: “You enjoy this, don’t you, Cheryl? You want your body to be at the mercy of somebody who can control you. You want a _man_ to claim you, touch you, make you belong to him.”

The blissful haze was so thick, the sounds around her so steady, the air against her skin so electric, that she barely noticed when Edgar’s fingers pushed inside her wet entrance.

Barely.

But the dull ache of being stretched open again interrupted the trance. It was… uncomfortable. Raw. _Painful_. The soreness of Cheryl’s body protested, the sensitive inner walls of her vagina tensing against the return of the intrusion. It was wrong. It was _wrong_. It was—

“W-wait… Edgar! Edgar, _no_!”

The next click arrived late, the beat faltering for only the tiniest fraction of a second.

It was enough.

Cheryl could feel the fog dissipating, her strength returning, the will to resist flowing through her blood. The horrible horrible realization of what was being done to her. The panicked thrumming of her own heartbeat, taking over for Penelope’s slow pacing. The succulent scent of Blossom maple syrup. The hiss of the aerosol. The peaceful waves of hazy simplicity wrapping around her brain and sending tingles through her limbs. The hypnotic drumbeat of that echoing click. The soft satin of the bedsheets. The delicious push and pull of the other body claiming a space inside of hers.

Him. _Edgar_. On top of her. Underneath her. Inside of her, all around her. Moving toward her, against her, through her, with her, pushing her open, squeezing her tight, smothering her and liberating her and making her _his_. 

Their bodies beat their own rhythm, flesh on flesh, soft on hard, man on woman. Edgar’s unyieldingly sturdy muscles pressed against Cheryl’s pliant figure. His strong arms tucked under her shoulders, pulling her in closer with every thrust of his bony pelvic slamming against the soft fat of her inner thighs. His hard, scratchy jaw burrowed into her sweet neck, his low grunts harmonizing perfectly with her soprano wails of pleasure. The whole of the universe could be distilled into that moment—heat and light, clicks and slaps, deeper and deeper and deeper.

The coarse hair of her lover’s back tickled Cheryl’s palms as she lay them flat, pushing his rigid chest in tighter against her breasts. Her legs rose of their own accord, wrapping tightly around his hips, coaxing him in closer, deeper, harder. The strength of her grip felt impossible, and yet every fiber of her being knew it to be right. The question of when the ropes had been lifted away dissipated before it could even be formed, like incense smoke on a maple-scented breeze, a distant second to the powerful fireworks rocketing through her limbs. She longed to embrace him, to intertwine with him, to bury herself in him as he had buried himself in her. The whole of her spirit screamed to be One with his.

And she could feel it—the point of convergence. She could feel the entire world narrowing down, down her torso, down her belly, deep down inside her, where his body met hers. Where his impossibly, gloriously hard erection thrust against the tiny, sensitive ring of her cervix. Where his thick shaft pushed her inner walls apart, forcing her body to transform for him. As her orgasm built, she squeezed harder, clamping down around Edgar and that singular point of unity. The rhythm of her heart, of the bedsprings, of her gasps, of his moans, of their flesh, of that ever-present click of heels on the stone floor—all of them converged as One drumbeat, building hot and hard and slick and—

“Yes!” he howled into the smooth hollow under her ear, the ruts of his hips sharp and fierce. “Take my seed, Cheryl!”

And she did, the music of Edgar Evernever’s own pleasure sending her free-falling off the cliff they had built together, the white hot light in her eyes overpowering everything else. She pulsed around him and he pulsed inside of her and his hot, wet cum spilled into her waiting hole, warm and thick like sweet maple syrup. One final harmonious moan as his weight crushed her beneath him, before their breaths fell out of sync.

The room was eerily silent, vacuous, without the beat of Penelope’s heels against the floor. A single sharp fingernail grazed against Cheryl’s forehead, pulling back a stray lock of fiery red hair. “Perhaps this time you’ve learned your lesson,” the matron purred coldly. 

Penelope’s daughter could barely manage to hum in reply. Her breaths were shallow, her chest unable to expand properly under his firm weight, but the lightheadedness she felt paired perfectly with the relief of climax and the giddy fog already filling her brain. Her hands continued to wander along Edgar’s spine, lost in the texture of his wiry body hair and rippling muscles. Nothing—not the bright white lights, not her mother’s condescension, not the crushing weight of her lover collapsed against her—could break Cheryl’s happy fog.

As Edgar’s spent dick deflated, it slowly inched its way back out from between her legs until it fell out completely, leaving a disappointingly hollow feeling and a dribble of wet cum in its wake. At the feeling of warm fluid leaking out from between her labia, Cheryl felt her first pang of post-coital anxiety, suddenly feeling ashamed of herself for not being able to hold Edgar’s gift inside of her. She tried to snake a hand between their bodies, perhaps to scoop her lover’s cum back inside her and block any more from escaping, but his strong fingers wrapping around her wrist grounded her back to woozy brainlessness.

“There will be plenty of time for more soon,” he cooed, his rumbly voice reassuring and calm. “Let your mind be free of worry. Relax.” The words were strong. Safe. Sweet.

Faint murmurs and the sounds of shuffling rose up from around the room like the babble of ocean waves as faceless Farmies clad in white stepped forward. Edgar pushed himself off the woman’s pliant body and sat up on the mattress. He used one thumb and forefinger to squeeze a final droplet of semen from his flaccid dick before wiping it against Cheryl’s thigh. “The nuns will help fix you up again so you’ll be ready for the other men of the Farm,” he promised, giving her leg one final reassuring squeeze before stepping away, his nude silhouette disappearing into a sea of white and linen.

* * *

The air smelled like maple syrup and sex.


End file.
